This room, however, although ugly and dark--very dark--seemed to be suspiciously bare. The children had turned on the gas--for evening had already arrived--and they could see with great distinctness.

Mammy Warren owned the upper part of this tenement-house, and no one ever came up the creaking stairs except to visit her. The children therefore knew that if there was a footstep they would be in danger.

Connie, however, a.s.sured Ronald that she could put out the light and be innocently seated by the fire if Mammy Warren did arrive unexpectedly.

All was silence, however, on the creaking stairs, and they were able to resume their search. The chest of drawers stood with all its drawers open and each one of them empty. No sort of tool could the children find. The yellow and black silk dress had disappeared, but the disreputable old beggar's clothes hung on the peg behind the door. There was also a very ancient bonnet, which was hung by its strings over the dress. Otherwise there was not a sc.r.a.p of anything whatever in the room except the press bedstead, which the children could not possibly open, and the empty chest of drawers.

"But here," said Connie, "is a door. P'rhaps it's a cupboard door."

"Let's try if it will open," said Ronald.

He turned the handle. The door shot back with a spring, and the boy's face turned pale.

"The dark closet!" said Connie. "The dark, dark room without a winder!"

Ronald caught hold of Connie's hand and squeezed it tightly. After a minute he said in a husky voice:

"Come away."

Connie shut the mysterious closet door. The children turned out the gas in Mammy Warren's bedroom, and went back to the sitting-room. Here they crouched down, pale and trembling, before the fire.

"Don't, Ronnie--don't," said Connie.

"Hold me very tight, Connie," said the little boy.

She did so, pressing him to her heart and kissing his little face. After a minute tears came to his eyes, and he said in a st.u.r.dy tone:

"Now I am better. It was wrong of me to be so frightened."

"Hark--there's the Woice!" said Connie.

They sat very still while Big Ben proclaimed the hour of nine.

"What does he say?" asked Ronald, turning round and looking at Connie.

"I know," said Connie, a light on her pretty face. "Father John preached on it once. I know wot Big Ben's a-sayin' of to-night."

"Tell me," said Ronald.

"_He that shall endure_," said Connie. "Yes, Connie," repeated Ronald--"'He that shall endure'----"

"_To the end_," said Connie, "_shall be saved_," she added.

"Oh Connie!" cried the boy. "Do you really, really think so?"

"Father John says it, and Father John couldn't tell a lie," continued the girl. "He says that is one of G.o.d's promises, and G.o.d never made a mistake. 'He that shall endure to the end--shall be saved.'"

"Then," said Ronald, "if _we_ endure _we_ shall be saved."

"Yes," replied Connie.

"You're not frightened, then?"

"Not after that," said Connie.

"How can you tell that _was_ what Big Ben said?"

"'Eard him," said Connie.

She unclasped Ronald's arms from her neck and stood up.

"I'm better," she said; "I'm not frightened no more. Sometimes it's 'ard to endure--Father John says it is. But "E that _shall_ endure to the end'--to the _end_--he made a great p'int o' that--'shall be saved.'"

"Then _we'll_ be saved," said Ronald.

"Yus," answered Connie.

She looked down at the little boy. The boy was gazing into the fire and smiling. Connie put on some fresh lumps of coal, and the fire broke into a cheerful blaze. It did not matter at all to the good coal whether it burned out its heart in an attic or a palace; wherever it was put to do its duty, it did it. Now gay little flames and cheerful bursts of bubbling gas rendered even the hideous room bright.

"W'y, it's long past tea!" said Connie. "I'll put on the kettle and we'll have our tea, Ronald. Maybe Aggie'll be back in a minute, and maybe she'd like a cup o' tea."

Connie put on the kettle, and then went to the cupboard to get out the provisions. These were exceedingly short. There was little more than a heel of very stale bread, and no b.u.t.ter, and only a sc.r.a.pe of jam; but there was a little tea in the bottom of the tea-canister, and a little coa.r.s.e brown sugar in a cup.

Connie laid the table quite cheerfully.

"We'll toast the bread," she said. "Tea and toast is famous food."

She got an old, bent toasting-fork, and she and Ronald laughed and even joked a little as they browned the stale bread until it was quite crisp and tempting-looking.

"I'd ever so much rather have this tea than a great, big, grand one with Mammy Warren," said Connie.

"Yes, Connie," said the boy; "so would I."

They had no milk with their tea, but that was, after all but a small circ.u.mstance. They sc.r.a.ped out the jam-pot and spread its contents on the hot toast, and contrived to enjoy the slender meal to the utmost.

Ronald said nothing about breakfast the next morning; he doubtless did not even give it a thought. But Connie remembered it well, although she took care not to allude to it.

Ten o'clock struck, and still Agnes did not appear. Eleven, twelve--and no sign either of Mammy Warren or the girl.

"Shall we go to bed?" said Ronald.

"Let's bring our beds and lay 'em on the floor," said Connie, "in this room. Some'ow I don't think as Mammy Warren 'ull come back to-night. She wouldn't 'ave tuk all her things ef she meant to come; would she, Ronald?"

"I don't know," said Ronald. He was very sleepy, for the hour was terribly late for so young a child to be awake.

After a little reflection Connie decided only to drag his bed into the front room. She could lie on the floor by his side, wrapped up in a blanket. The fire was built up with the last sc.r.a.p of coal in the hod, and then Ronald lay down without undressing. Connie begged of him to take off his clothes, but he said to her:

"Maybe father'll come in the middle of the night. I somehow feel as if something must happen to-night, and I don't want not to be ready."